Chapter 12 #2
He nodded, released his tight grip and gently pulled the corset up and over her head, tossing it onto the seat of the nearest chair. “Much better,” Poppy said, then stopped speaking as he sucked her nipple into his mouth.
Poppy responded by moaning and grinding into his hard erection, which was perfectly aligned against her tiny skirt with its silly fringe.
Those would be the next to go, and he couldn’t wait.
Judging by the way Poppy was rotating her hips and sliding against his dick, she was eager to be shot of them, too.
Poppy tugged at his shirt and surprised him by ripping it apart.
Much like he did the first time they made love.
He heard a button ping as it hit the floor as she pushed his shirt off his shoulders and placed her hot mouth on his skin above his heart.
“I want you,” she said, looking up at him. “Do you want me?”
“Only as much as I want to take my next breath,” he told her, his voice husky.
Poppy wriggled out of his grasp and dropped to her feet.
Standing with her back to him in between him and the kitchen table, she bent over, hair falling to the floor to undo the buckles on her shoes.
Kicking them off, she shimmied the skirt over her hips and took the silk stockings with it.
Thom noticed the tiny beads on her thong. Damn, he loved G-strings…
His heart picked up pace as he traced the cleft of her buttocks, caressing the skin under the gossamer band of her thong.
“These make men stupid,” he muttered, stroking the pad of his thumb across one of the two dents above her butt cheeks.
“Take me to bed, Thom,” Poppy told him, her voice languid and sexy as hell.
Pulling her to the edge of the table, he picked her up, and her legs locked around his hips.
Holding her easily, he carried her up the stairs, stopping occasionally when he needed a hit of her mouth, or to suck one of her pretty nipples into his mouth.
When they reached his bedroom, he put her down on the edge of the bed and dropped to his knees between her legs.
Pulling the clip from her hair, Poppy shook her head, and her hair tumbled down, heavy and bright against her back.
Fuck, she had no idea how sexy she was as he looked into her eyes, which were the color of the lake at midnight.
He’d thought the expression “drowning in her eyes” was a twee cliché, but he got it now.
Hers were deep, mysterious, and the witchiest blue he’d ever seen.
She was such a surprise, a puzzle he couldn’t figure out.
He dropped his head and took a moment to slow them down by resting his forehead on her fragrant stomach.
Crazy creative, insecure, bold, but a little na?ve.
Tougher than she realized. Loving and filled with laughter.
In another life—if he were a different man, with less baggage and better instincts—he’d already be figuring out how to make her his.
But he wasn’t that guy. He couldn’t be. He didn’t have the bandwidth, the time, or—most crucially—the trust required to offer anything that lasted longer than a heartbeat.
Depth and permanence demanded faith in people, and that ship had sunk.
Spectacularly. Permanently. No salvage-operation planned.
And yet.
She was the first woman in … hell, ever … who’d made him even pause long enough to imagine the possibility. Which was precisely why she was dangerous. To him. Slow it down, you defrosted dickhead.
Because if he didn’t, someone—very likely him—was going to get their vital internal organs fed through an emotional meat grinder. His heart and his balls took one look at that scenario and sensibly bolted for safety.
All he had—all he was capable of having—was right now. This moment. This woman. And if that was the case, he was damn well going to wring every last drop out of it.
Instead of kissing her mouth, her expression sweetly demanding, Thom dropped feather-light kisses on her collarbone, nibbled her neck, and went back to that sweet spot between her neck and ear.
Poppy tipped her head to allow him better access and lifted his hand and placed it on her breast. Wanting to tease her, to slow them both down, to take their time, he held but didn’t stroke her, and she growled, her disapproval obvious.
Some things needed time, concentrated time, and focus, and he didn’t want to be—wouldn’t be—rushed.
So he took his time to explore, to push her higher, kissing the skin on the inside of her elbow, and the curve of her hip.
He painted kisses on the inside of her thighs, explored the back of her knees, and inspected the tiny tattoo of a hummingbird low on her hip.
He feasted. And just when he thought Poppy was at her limit—right when her breath hitched, and her body went deliciously taut—he started the whole damn thing all over again.
When he finally pulled her thong down and flung it away, when he covered her sweet spot with his mouth and sucked her gently, she released a high-pitched squeal and arched her back.
Knowing she needed more, wanting to give her everything, he slid two fingers into her and nuzzled as she fell apart, her body contracting around his fingers.
When she stopped panting, her forearm over her eyes, her body flushed, he told her to lie back on the bed.
As long as he lived, he would remember Poppy stretched out, looking satisfied, her skin flushed and her eyes bright.
Finding a condom in the bedside drawer, he kicked off his trainers and dropped his jeans and underwear. He rolled the condom on and leaned over Poppy and lifted her arm off her eyes.
“You still with me, McMaster?” he asked.
“Mmm.”
He dragged his finger through her folds, and her eyes widened. “Can I carry on?” he asked.
“Mmm.”
Grinning, he spread her legs, slid into her wet, wild warmth, and rotated his hips. So hot, so deep, so Poppy.
Happy to delay his pleasure, he was content to stay like this and, keeping his weight off her, he stroked his hands up and down her sides before dropping his head to suck her nipple into his mouth.
Poppy tensed and lifted her hips, and he recognized the tension in her body.
He’d make her come on his cock, slow and devastating.
He lifted her hips again, so they rocked against him, and he hit her G-spot—and suddenly she was demanding more, and he was pumping, and if he had to stop, he would just die…
He heard Poppy scream and felt her clench around him, and another burst of pure energy pulsed through him.
Yeah, Thom thought as he locked his knees to keep himself from collapsing on top of her. Poppy. This.
So much better, so much more, than he ever expected.
Thom rolled over, blinking at the bright light in his eyes. Patting the bedside table, he picked up his phone to check the time, surprised when he saw it was past eight. When had he last slept so late? And so well.
That was one of the benefits of a couple of rounds of great sex and falling asleep with a feminine bundle in your arms. Talking of, where was Poppy? Thom heard the shower in his en-suite bathroom pounding water against the old tiles and slowly smiled.
Yeah, there was only one thing better than the morning after a spectacular night of sex, and that was the anticipation of more sex, specifically shower sex.
Flinging back the covers, his feet hit the chilly wooden floorboards, and he skirted the bed, smiling at the indent left by Poppy’s head in the spare pillow, and crossed the room.
He yawned as he opened the door to the bathroom and caught his reflection in the mirror above the sink.
Messy hair, heavy stubble, that was all normal; the smile and the satisfaction in his eyes were not.
“Hey, Pops, we could’ve showered together, why waste wat—” He looked into the glass shower cubicle and blinked when he saw water pumping out of the shower head onto the tiles below. What?
Had Poppy showered and left the water running?
He looked at the towel hanging on the railing, gripped the fabric, and found that it was bone dry.
Nobody had used the towel recently. Confused and a little unsettled, Thom reached in to shut off the taps.
The most rational explanation was that Poppy had decided to shower, flipped on the taps, and then changed her mind and forgot the water was running.
Yeah, it was thin, but the only other explanation was that the house, or the ghosts Poppy insisted lived in it, were playing games.
“It’s too damn early for this shit,” he muttered, reaching for his toothbrush and paste.
He’d brush his teeth, pull on some clothes—track pants and a hoodie, something easy—and find his lover.
Hopefully, she’d put a pot of coffee on and had found the bacon in the fridge.
After caffeinating and refueling, he’d suggest returning to bed…
Whistling, Thom walked down the stairs and turned left to the kitchen.
Stopping in the doorway, he looked around, both amused and horrified.
Poppy, hair a knotty mess, wearing one of his dress shirts, her feet bare, hummed along with a song blaring from a portable speaker.
His papers, books, and laptop had been pushed to the end of the table, and bowls and ingredients littered the rest of the table’s surface.
God, she was baking something. A scary thought, because unless she’d done a one-eighty in the past thirteen years, Poppy had the baking skills of a pot plant.
Thom folded his arms and leaned his shoulder into the doorframe, wincing when Poppy tipped a bowl of flour into a sieve, his view of her temporarily clouded by flour dust. This would be a nightmare to clean up, and no doubt she’d rope him into helping.